


The Road to Haven (Is Paved with Good Intentions)

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternative Meeting Scenario, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slight Canon Divergence, Tragedy of House Alexius, mentioned canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-08 23:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13468989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: When the meeting with Mages goes downhill, the Inquisition turns to Templars for the help to close the Breach. But the Herald of Andraste has never been one to let a potential threat to lurk behind her back; something fishy is going on in Redcliffe, and she's going to find out what.She's hired a mercenary group for a reason, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viridis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridis/gifts).



> This particular fic has been lurking in my files for about a year now in various states of "nearly finished", and, frankly, at this point I just want it off my consciousness. It was supposed to be a one-shot about those alternative meeting scenarios, but it grew too long, and even though it's now finished, I have yet to edit it. I meant to publish it all in one go, but I've finally realised there's no way of me editing the whole thing as one, so I've broken it up into five parts. Perhaps publishing this now will give me the kick I need to finish the rest properly.
> 
> Also: when I wrote the first half of this fic, I did not yet know the consequences of certain actions in the game, so pardon me the liberty I've taken with one minor thing. Nothing major, but it might catch your eye!
> 
> Gifted to Viridis, without whom I probably would have taken another 1000 years to get back to this work and because the coincidence was just too good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull is sent to snoop around the Hinterlands for the Venatori. He doesn't find exactly what he's looking for, but hey, close enough.

The Bull’s chosen his spot well in Haven: near the gates, by the stables, where he has a clear view on the practise of the Inquisition's forces-in-making and the methods of the evidently able Commander, and where he's the first to see who comes and goes from the village and with what news. Therefore he's also among the first to hear how everything went down in Redcliffe, from the Herald herself.

“The mages are shitting us,” she says to no one in particular and tosses the reins of her chestnut to the first available person nearby. That's Blackwall, who was real quick to find something to do at the stables as soon as Lavellan's party was sighted. He catches the reins like a gift from Andraste. Further away, Cullen hurries towards them.

“We’re going for the Templars,” Lavellan continues, although Cullen is barely within the earshot and she hasn’t consulted anyone from the Inquisition’s council yet. That’s her way; she says what she wants to say, when she wants to say it. If someone’s not there to hear it? Not her problem.

“My lady!” Cullen finally reaches the stables. “Did you meet Fiona? How was it?”

“A disaster,” Cassandra supplies, dismounting. Her lips are set in a grim line. “Grand Enchanter Fiona has gone mad. She has pledged the mages to the service of a Tevinter magister.”

“ _What_?”

“It gets better,” Varric mutters. “Apparently this Alexius fellow is the leader of some Tevinter cult, but his slowly dying son wants to stop him and arranged us a meeting with Alexius’ former apprentice, who also wants to stop him.”

“We are done with the mages,” Lavellan states. Whatever happened in Redcliffe really got under her skin – she’s practically seething. Must’ve been a fun ride all the way to Haven. “They send a poor dying Felix and some Pavus from Minrathous, and think that I’ll far for their ruse. Not happening. One spy in my ranks is enough, thank you.”

The words aren’t really meant for the Bull to hear, but the Bull doesn’t mind. Her directness makes his job that much easier, and besides, she isn’t wrong.

Varric sends her a sideways glance. “Don’t you think it’s a bit too obvious to be a ruse? That trick would be too transparent to write even into a book. They could be telling the truth.”

“Can we afford to take that chance?” Cassandra asks.

“Can we afford not to? I mean, could be just me, but a foreign force occupying a town? You only need to read chapter six of the Tale of the Champion to see how that can end, if you don’t believe me.”

“You _wrote_ that book, dwarf.”

Lavellan fixes Varric with a cool stare. “We are not talking about your books, Varric. _We are done with the mages._ ”

On her way to the village gates Lavellan stops by the Bull and looks up at him in a way that can only be described as looking down on someone. Pretty impressive for an elf barely taller than Varric. “Make sure your Chargers are ready. Time to prove your usefulness soon.” She continues her way without waiting for his _got it, boss_. The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces follows her half a step behind.

“She’s a born leader,” Blackwall says beside the Bull.

Not necessarily a good one, the Bull doesn’t say.

.

_Soon_ is nearly a fortnight later, when the first of the conscripted templars have arrived in Haven and Leliana’s spies have gathered some information on the Venatori cult that the mages have turned to, scarce as that information is. Redcliffe has gone completely silent, and the Herald doesn’t like that one bit. She likes knowing. She and the Bull have that in common.

“The crumbs Leliana has found have led us nowhere. We need solid information. I want to know what these Venatori want and how they are planning to get what they want. You said you and your boys are the best in this line of work. Now is the time to prove it.”

Her orders are simple enough: Go to Redcliffe and find what’s going on. So the Bull takes his Chargers and goes.

.

For rebels who've allied with a weird-ass cult, the mages at Redcliffe are pretty ignorant about their situation. Some of them are unhappy about serving a Tevinter magister, others view it as their last resort, but beyond that, everyone seems pretty clueless. As far as anyone can tell, only the rebel mages reside in the village – the Tevinter cultists and everyone with a position of power might as well have evaporated in the thin air. That, if anything, is a bad sign.

The regular townspeople don't even seem bothered. “The mages?” a townsman named Jimmy says and shrugs. “Don't know nothing about that. But if you’re going travelling in the woods, keep your eyes out for my Lord Woolsley. He’s my family's lucky ram, he is, a special one. Please tell him to return back home if you see him. You’ll know it’s him, I promise, you will. Please. We need him.”

“Sure,” the Bull says. Behind him, Krem coughs into his arm, and that's about all they get from Redcliffe.

“Could be magic,” the Bull says, when they've put up a camp further from the village and got a fire going. “The boss did mention something about weird magic crap going on.”

They all look expectantly at Dalish, who sits on a stone by the fire and whittles what looks like an arrow. She pauses and returns their looks. “Shame none of us has a talent for those things,” she says.

“Yes,” Stitches says dryly. “Shame. By the way, would you mind practising your archery into the fire? We seem to be low on firewood.”

They aren't, courtesy of Grim, which Dalish proves by throwing a log at Stitches, who ducks, and the log hits Rocky. Rocky barely notices.

“Anyway,” Stitches continues the previous line of the conversation, “A large group of mages can't have simply vanished. There must be traces of them _somewhere_.”

“We'll do some sniffing around tomorrow,” the Bull promises. He wants to know, too. Mad mages running around is bad enough, but when they are also cultist Vints… Well, the Bull wants to know. Also, makes killing them that much more fun.

Sniffing around is easier said than done, of course. Trying to track down people who don't wish to be tracked down in an area as vast as the Hinterlands is time-consuming, and damn boring to boot. After two days of wading in the woods, hacking through bears and wolves and bandits, the Bull begins craving for something _big_ to hit. A wyvern, maybe. A dragon would be even better, but even if they found one, the boss’s given explicit orders not to engage in dragon fights without her. Still, man's gotta take his fun where he can, and the Bull pays extra attention to signs of dragon territory to mark down for the boss, since the Vints have apparently gone into hiding.

“Vints,” Krem says.

The Bull looks where Krem is pointing, up on the neighbouring hill, and grins. “Damn,” he says. “You're right.”

They indeed are Vints, four of them, there's no question about that – the clothing gives it away. That, and the spells they are tossing back and forth at an attacking pack of wolves. They haven't noticed the Bull's company yet, from behind the trees.

“They are fighting wolves,” Krem says.

“You've got an eye for details, Krem. Two, even. I knew there was a reason why you're my second.”

“Not only wolves,” Stitches points out. “They are fighting each other. Look. Three to one, up there.”

They all look closer, and it appears that Stitches is right – three of the mages launch spells at a fourth one, who's standing higher on the hill, half hidden behind a rock, and dodging both spells and wolfish teeth. The Bull turns to Rocky, who stands closest to him, to explain, “And this is why Krem's only my _second_.”

“Are we going up?” Skinner asks, the gleam of her daggers matching the gleam of her bared teeth.

The Bull considers it. The mages are preoccupied with each other, but as soon as the Bull's company steps from behind the trees they will likely be spotted. That means the Bull's boys will have to defend while charging up the hill, which, while not too steep, is a disadvantage nonetheless. But the wolves won't last long against magic – already three of them are dead, two on fire, and remaining four are visibly injured – so better attack now while the mages are distracted.

“Nah,” the Bull answers to Skinner, and slaps Rocky's shoulder. “Let's get them _down_.”

Rocky's face splits into a wild grin.

“Uh-oh,” Dalish says. “Get close to me. I'll set up a barrier. Of-- of arrows.”

“Keep it in your pants, Rocky. I'd like to have at least one of them alive,” the Bull reminds him, while Rocky gently chooses a glass flask from his satchel and taps it contentedly with his finger.

“Got it, Chief.”

“Yeah, that's what you said last time too. Now go make them boom.”

Rocky does. He steps from behind the trees and throws his grenade. “Horns up!”

The grenade lands right in the middle of the three mages lower on the hill, and explodes.

Rocky always mixes his powders with sincere love, and it shows in his work. There is a boom that the Bull's got to admit is pretty impressive, and the hillside comes tumbling down, all rocks and wolves and dead Vints. Dalish's barrier holds all of that.

“Dammit, Rocky, I said I want at least one of them alive!”

“That one's alive,” Rocky says, offended, and points at one of the bodies that, true enough, moves with a groan. It's the mage who was fighting the other three, and he had the advantage of catching sight of Rocky before he threw his grenade. The air around the mage flickers light purple, the remnants of a magic barrier. “ _Venhedis_ ,” he mutters vehemently, and then his eyes fall on the Chargers, and he scrambles up on his feet, apparently unharmed, save for a few scratches on his face and his bared arm. The Bull steps forward. “I take that back. Good job, Rocky.”

“Good job? I fail to see which part of this exactly could be described as _good job_ ,” the mage snaps and pointedly glares at the three partly burned bodies among the rubble. Of all the things, he looks affronted. “Was that truly necessary? I meant to question them!”

Up close, the Bull can see that the Vint looks quite young. Is a pretty thing, too, all refined features and fancy – if somewhat worn – robes. And has a moustache, the sort that handsome villains in Varric's tales wear on the book cover. All in all the mage looks just the type that would invite you into his house and offer you his best wine, then stab you in the back and perform a little blood magic ritual the first chance he gets. The Bull has seen plenty of those in his time. He draws out his axe.

The mage's eyes fall on it. “Ah,” he says.

The Bull grins. “Question, huh? I usually prefer hacking Vints to bits, but now that you brought it up...”

The Vint’s eyes move from the Bull's axe to the Chargers, and he seems to drop the three dead mages from his list of priorities. He looks back to the Bull, cautious. “I'm afraid I've changed my mind about that,” he says, slowly, eyes still darting between the Chargers, their bared weapons, and possible escape routes. The aren't many. He's got his back to the crumbled hillside, and even unharmed, there's not a chance he could outrun the Bull and his boys. That means he'll get desperate, and desperate people can do rash things. The Bull keeps his distance, the Chargers in half a circle by his sides.

“Why were you fighting those guys?” the Bull asks.

“For private reasons, as I'm sure you'll understand.”

Skinner shifts restlessly by the Bull's side. The mage notices it, and raises his hands in a placating gesture in front of him. His staff lies at his feet. “Well,” he continues, “as you seem to be done with your questioning, I will be taking my leave now.” He executes a little bow, but his eyes never leave the Bull's. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”

With a barest shrug, the Bull signals his guys to stand ready. “Not so fast,” he says to the mage.

“An interesting choice of words,” the Vint replies. His lips twist into a hint of a smile. “As you wish.”

And then, regardless, things happen very fast. And then slow. Very slow.

The mage spreads his arms in a wide gesture. At the same time, the Bull charges. Skinner on his right tenses for a leap forward. Dalish raises her staff, Rocky reaches for his satchel again, and Grim and Krem lounge forward. The mage has nowhere to run, so it should be over in seconds.

Yet it isn't. The Bull is moving, he's sure he's moving, and yet his leg still hangs mid-air, in no haste to meet the ground. It's as though the air itself freezes around him – not in the cold ice-freezing way, but like everything just stops moving, or no, doesn't stop, simply slows down, like it was time itself…

_C r a p,_ the Bull begins to think.

The only one  not affected is the Vint, who  snatches his staff from the ground and moves like a  gush of wind past the Bull, dart ing for the tree-line. The Bull tries to turn his head to see where exactly the mage runs, but it's like he's dipped horns-deep into a swamp. Then he's suddenly happy that he still has his eye facing the destroyed hillside, because turns out the three dead Vints aren't so dead after all.  _Crap_ , the Bull thinks again, and this time it's a full thought, and his foot hits the ground at the same time as the three mages fix their hollow eyes on him.

“Shit,” Krem curses, with feeling.

“Shit,” Dalish agrees with him, but she looks almost _delighted_.

“Fucking magic crap,” the Bull growls.

“Still, it was a good boom,” Rocky says and glares at the three undead mages like they have personally slighted him and his skills.

The mages attack.

Then they die again, in a few moments, just like that.

“It was a good boom,” Dalish comforts Rocky as they check the bodies for any orders or valuables – or signs of not being entirely dead. “This is the Vint's doing.”

Yeah, this sure as shit is the Vint's doing. The Bull keeps an eye on the tree-line, where he sent Skinner for some scouting. Time magic, like the Boss said, and the dead rising… If that doesn't scream Evil Tevinter Cultist for you, nothing does.

“Chief,” Stitches calls to him, and the Bull turns. “Look at this.”

There is a skull, among the rocks and rubble. On a pole. With one empty socket and the other filled with a magically gleaming crystal. It's a wonder it hasn't shattered in the explosion.

“Huh,” the Bull says, and lets Rocky smash it.

x


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more the merrier, right? Talking, I mean.

Tracking down the escaped Vint is so easy that the Bull half expects it to be a ruse. The man just wades on, not bothering to even try misleading any possible pursuers, so he's either certain that his trick with the dead Vints was enough to kill the Chargers, which would be fucking insulting, or then he's a pampered magister who's never set his foot in a forest before. Could be both, too, but the Bull would bet on the latter; a magister who manipulates time and raises the dead would have given a bigger fight if he’d truly wished to stop them. Could also be that he was out of mana, though. Either way, the Bull almost feels bad for following him so easily; like playing hide and seek with a kid and pretending not to find him. Well, at least the Vint has enough sense to stay off the road.

The Chargers have spread, discreetly closing a circle around the Vint, but keeping their distance to stay unnoticed; the Bull wants to see where he’s is running to.

Although the mage isn't running much. He did, at first, but that didn't last long, and now he's trying to maintain a swift walk. He's slowing, though, begins favouring his right leg a little and also paying more attention to his surroundings, like he’s only now starting to wonder where he is. He's also getting the look of a man who hasn't drunk a drop of water for an entire day, not to mention eating. The Chargers have their flagons (though the Bull suspects Rocky has something else than water in his) and packs of dried meat to keep them on their feet on long runs like this, but the mage has nothing of the sort; from what the Bull can see, all he's carrying are his staff and a small pouch on his belt, presumably for lyrium. That considered, pampered magister or no, the Vint's got some perseverance to have kept him going for half a day, the Bull's got to give him that.

When shadows begin stretching longer, the Vint finally meets his limits. He stops, takes a look around, and, with a heavy sigh that even the Bull can see, sets his back against the nearest tree and sits down without even attempting to build any kind of shelter. He crosses his arms, his staff tucked between his arms and chest, and makes an attempt to cover his bare arm with his fancy but impractical robes. Frankly, it looks pretty pathetic.

The Bull's mildly disappointed that they didn't reach the mage's ultimate target yet, but even to him there's a limit to how long he likes to chase Vints in woods; his belly begins to grumble and his braced ankle is starting to make itself known, and since the Vint's got his defences low, it's a good time for closing the circle.

Grim and Dalish come into the Bull's view, and he signals for them to follow him. Then he stretches his neck and heads for the Vint, his axe in its straps on his back – he doesn't want to appear too threatening, yet.

He approaches the Vint openly, even makes sure to step on a few dry twigs to give him a warning to avoid any hastily cast spells. Even still, the Vint doesn't open his eyes until the Bull's about fifty steps away from him. It’s only when the Bull's horns hit a tree branch that the mage finally starts and scrambles to his feet, looking around, staff ready to fight. Then he sees the Bull.

“You,” he says. He doesn't sound surprised, or startled, but there's something else in his voice. Disappointment? His grip tightens on his staff.

The Bull raises his hands, palms up, before things can get out of hand. “Hey, easy.”

“Stop,” the Vint snaps, and the Bull halts. They regard one another, suspicion written all over the Vint's face. There's a black spot sitting near the corner of his right eye, a beauty mark – or a mole, in which case it would be a damn good coincidence.

“You _had_ to follow, didn't you,” the Vint sighs, and the Bull identifies the tone: resignation.

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs. “I mean, after you threw corpses at us...”

“After _you_ blew up the ground beneath me!”

“Hey, you survived.”

“No thanks to you.”

The Bull grins – can’t help it, really. “Well, next time you don't want be followed, try to kill your opponents better.”

The Vint juts up his chin. “I assure you, had I truly wanted you dead back there, you wouldn't stand here now, giving me unnecessary advice.”

“Yeah,” the Bull admits, “Figured, a mage like you.” He steps forward, palms still up.

“You flatter me,” the Vint utters with mock modesty, and hastens to continue when the Bull takes yet another step, now lowering his hands, “And I believe I told you not to move, or I might actually kill you this time.”

“Yeah, about that.” The Bull stops obediently, mostly because he's already got the information that he wanted – that the mage is no danger to him. If he wanted to harm the Bull, he would have done so the first time the Bull took a step. That he didn't means he wants to avoid fighting unless he feels threatened enough, and the Bull's not going to drive him there just for the kicks. “None of your funny tricks this time.” And then, because he hears Dalish approaching from the side, continues for distraction, “Besides, you didn't tell me not to move. You told me to _stop_ , which I did, and now I just started again.” To demonstrate this, he takes another step.

“I'll be more specific in my directions next time,” the mage snaps, and this time he sounds like he's serious. “Do stop moving altogether, if you please.”

Now is really not the time, but the Bull can't let such an opening slip. “Oh, _I please_. Never been asked to stop moving to do so, though.”

The look that appears on the Vint's face makes up for the half a day's chase in the woods. “What? You-- Just for that, I think I'm going to fry you after all.”

“Pity. I preferred you alive.”

Dalish has come into view now, on the Bull's right. On the left, his blind side, he hears Grim's steps. He doesn't have to look at either of them to make sure – he knows how they move. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the Vint.

The Vint sees Dalish and Grim too, sighs in exasperation and lowers his staff, a little. “I don't suppose you've left the rest of your charming little gang in the care of some benevolent chantry sister before heading after me?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Am I to expect an arrow in my back then?”

“Depends if you're gonna be trouble.”

The Vint glowers. “Oh, that's right. If _I'm_ going to be trouble, says the qunari who nearly killed me half a day ago. Blame the mage, will you! Tell me, would you also prefer me bound and leashed in true qunari fashion?”

That _would_ be a sight, but one to return to at a later time. Still, because the Bull's never believed in wasting an opportunity, “I'd buy you dinner first.” He winks. The mage glowers harder.

“Speaking of dinner,” says Dalish. Her attention's never stayed long on circling conversations, but she has a point here. The Bull tilts his head behind the Vint, where Krem, Skinner, and Rocky are emerging. “Go tell Skinner get us something to eat, and send the others here. We're making camp.”

“Well then,” the Vint says as Dalish slips away, light-footed as always. “I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“Nah, you've got to stay.” The Bull grins. “The dinner's on me.”

The mage looks suspicious, guarded, and resigned all at once, but something flickers in his eyes. Quick and elusive, but definitely something. He says, slowly, “Doesn't count if you don't have to pay for it.”

_Oh,_ the Bull thinks.  _All right._

Beside him, Grim heaves a condemning sigh.

.

They don't commandeer the mage's staff or even his lyrium potions, or put him in shackles, although the mage clearly expects it. Instead, the Bull has Stitches look at his injured leg – some nasty-looking but mostly superficial bite-marks there, a wolf must've got him before he could summon his barriers. Tending to his wounds is not an act of kindness, per se, it's a means to an end. At best, helping the Vint will eventually drop his guard; at worst, it'll at least keep him on edge about the Bull's true intentions. Either way, it benefits the Bull.

Stitches finishes bandaging the Vint's calf, nods to the Bull, and withdraws to help Dalish put up the tents. Grim and Rocky have gone to fetch water and Skinner's still hunting, so there are only four of them in the camp; Krem's fussing with the fire beside the Bull. Maybe that'll make the Vint feel less threatened and more likely to talk.

“So,” the Bull says as the Vint closes the buckles on his boot, mindful of the bandage. “What's your name?”

The mage eyes him, and for a moment the Bull thinks he won't tell them, but he does. “Dorian--” he begins, but pauses at a small inhale, and repeats, now with finality, “Dorian.”

The Bull lets it slide, for now. Dorian looks him up and down, eyes lingering on his chest, jumping to his horns, and, finally, to the eye patch. “And dare I ask with whom I have the courtesy of speaking?”

The Bull shrugs. “Just a merc. These are my guys. Ever heard of the Bull's Chargers?”

Dorian looks at Krem, then glances at Dalish and Stitches who are fussing with their packs and pretending that they're not listening. Dorian turns back to the Bull. “Let me guess. They are the Chargers.”

“Yep!”

“Please don't tell me you're the Bull.”

The Bull grins, widely – again, can't really help it. He sees the way Dorian's eyes skim over his chest. “Yeah. The Iron Bull, actually, with the article. Impressed, huh?” He flexes, just a little.

Funnily, Dorian doesn't look impressed, although his eyes do linger on the Bull's shoulders. “Hardly.”

The Bull makes a show of getting comfy, rolls his shoulders and straightens his legs. Back to business. “So, Dorian. Blood magic?”

The Vint heaves a dramatic sigh and throws a suffering glare at the Bull, who gets the feeling that this is not the first time the mage has to explain himself. “Why everybody automatically assumes that I'm a blood mage, I have no idea. All right. Let's say this once. No, I do not use blood magic. No, I have no demon pet ready to turn me into an abomination. And before you ask, I'm not even a magister. All I am is a regular mage from Tevinter, and that is all.”

Krem snorts at _regular_ , but doesn't say anything.

“A regular mage raising the dead,” the Bull reminds the Vint, the magicking one.

The Vint's jaw tenses and he lifts his chin proudly, in a manner that collides harshly with the 'I'm a regular mage' part. “I will say this once, so you'd better listen. I have never once in my life performed a blood magic ritual, and I never shall.”

He sounds furious, and maybe the Bull imagines it, but he can see hues of purple magic around the mage. Offended by the suggestion that he uses blood magic, or trying to hide something? So the Bull continues, a little jab to see if the Vint reveals more.

“What, no daily blood magic sessions with daddy to meddle with the dead?”

That, the Bull notes, hits home. There's no obvious reaction, but the way Dorian’s eyes turn into steel and a sharp smirk tugs at his lips certainly shows that the Bull's onto something here. It also reminds him that this is the mage who raised the dead.

“Blood magic is the last resort of a weak mind,” Dorian says, and the words cut the air like Skinner's knives. “That's what my _daddy_ taught me.” He utters a short laughter, and the sound of it cuts into the Bull's flesh like ice. The Vint meets his eyes dead on, dark and dangerous and daring. “What concerns the strength of my mind, _The Iron Bull_ , you are free to draw your own conclusions.”

Krem shifts at the Bull's side and eyes the Vint warily. The Bull watches him, too, considers. Every mind can be broken, given enough time and the right tools to do it, he's seen that happen many enough times. Has done it many enough times. That doesn't mean every mind is weak, and what evidence he's seen of this particular Vint's mind tells him that, yeah, it's pretty strong. Has to be, if he's able to _manipulate the fucking time_.

“As for meddling with the dead, as you so graciously called it, I'll have you know that necromancy is an ancient, respected art that has absolutely nought to do with blood magic.” Dorian's tone subtly shifts towards casual, nearly as subtly as he directs the topic to a slightly different path. It would be easy to think it's just a natural flow of conversation, the Bull thinks, with some respect of all things. He lets him have it.

Dorian continues, all liquid casualness now. “Well, used to be respected, to be quite fair. Necromancy went out of fashion in Tevinter two Ages ago, and I suppose it's never been practised in the South, prejudiced as the people here are about magic. If southerners were less busy restricting their possible potential they'd realise what kind of finesse and willpower it takes to thread through the Veil and find -”

The Bull lifts his eyebrow and the mage stops abruptly. “Ah. I suppose you wouldn't grasp much of the magical theories. Suffice it say, then, that necromancy is not blood magic. You can always ask your own mage if my word is not enough for you.”

Dalish is humming and tying some feathers to a tent she'll be sharing with Rocky and doesn't hear the mage, but Krem decides to join in, helpfully. “Not a mage,” he clarifies. “She's an archer.”

Dorian turns to look at Krem, who faces him unblinking.

“All right,” the Bull says. “What about the time-manipulation then?”

Dorian’s brow arcs just a hint – the movement is barely noticeable, but speaks volumes to those who catch it. The mage is definitely a Vint, for if the Bull knows anything about Tevinter, it's that little gestures are used to carry everything from insults to approval. Where Fereldans use their words and Orlesians use their tone to convey their meaning, Tevinters use their body. The way a Vint holds his frame or tilts his head can speak volumes, and Dorian seems to speak that language clear and loud.

The brow still deliberately arced, Dorian says, “I doubt you'd get much out of a detailed theory of time magic.”

The Bull cants his head and plays the part. “Try a simplified version.”

“Very well: _Not blood magic._ ”

“Fair enough,” the Bull says. “Why were you fighting your friends at the hill?”

Dorian raises his hand to twirl the end of his styled moustache. “The word _friend_ would imply that I didn't want them dead.”

“Which you do.”

“Which I do.”

“Why?”

Dorian crosses his arms, face steely and guarded and, shit, still haughty. “So many questions. Tell me then, did _you_ have any other reason to kill them than being a big, burly qunari? With, well,” He glances at Krem. “your non-qunari sidekicks, I suppose.”

Krem glowers. “Sidekicks!”

The Bull laughs, loud and deep from his stomach. “Heard what you are, Krem de la Crémé?”

“No offence,” Dorian adds mildly.

The Bull grins. “None taken -”

“None by _you,_ ” Krem mutters.

“- and I did promise you dinner,” the Bull finishes.

Krem wrinkles his nose. “But he's an ass.”

The Bull shrugs. “He's a Vint.”

“I'm also right here, thank you.”

“Hey,” says Krem. “ _I'm_ a Vint.”

“Shit.” The Bull stares at Krem, eye wide. “No wonder _you're_ an ass.”

“Chief. You're the assest of them all.”

Dorian stares at them like he doesn't know what to make of all he sees, but he recovers quickly. “So, now that we have established that we're all asses here, I repeat my question. Why did you kill them?”

Okay. Time to throw a bone, if they want to get anywhere. “Got hired for the job.” He points his thumb at Krem. “The sidekicks and I, we get around. Are on high demand, too.”

“A little surprising, with a name like that.”

Krem snorts, and the Bull pouts. “Krem's right. You're an ass.”

“Is this where I might remind you again that you nearly killed me earlier today, and, for all I know, just wait for the perfect moment to stab me in the back?”

“Nah, not today.” As long as Dorian won’t give them reason to. “Our employer’s curious about this Venatori cult. You know, what they want, what they do, that sort of thing. Something you might know quite a bit about.”

Dorian looks affronted. “You think I’m with them.”

“The thought’s crossed my mind, yeah.”

“Oh, fine. Enough of this. If you must know, I have a bone to pick with some of the Venatori, and if I manage to sabotage their plans, whatever they are, while doing so, then all the better. And, to be perfectly clear on the matter: I am as much a follower of their cult as you are of the Qun, so I’d appreciate cutting baseless accusations short.”

Assumptions are a dangerous thing, and they usually play in the Bull's favour. Dorian knows nothing about Tal-Vashoth and the qunari, but that just saves the Bull the trouble of lying. Tal-Vashoth has been his role for years, and in Thedas, it works only to his advantage. And now Dorian's beginning to lose his cool, too.

“So,” Dorian goes on, flippant again, “it appears we are on the same side in this, and you can let me go.”

“A moment,” the Bull says like he just thought of it. “You sound like you know a bit of this cult. Could be something that might benefit us, too.”

Dorian's eyes narrow.

The Bull continues, “How about we travel together? You tell us what you know of the Venatori, and we help you with picking your bone. By the look of it, you were in a bit of a trouble back at the hillside.”

“I’ll have you know that I had everything perfectly under control.” He considers the Bull. “Do I have a real choice in this?”

Dorian obviously has some answers that the Bull needs. No, he doesn't have a choice – but no reason to let him think so. “Sure thing, big guy.”

Dorian doesn't look like he's convinced, but he sighs. “Well, then. I suppose.” He offers a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “You did promise me dinner, after all.”

Dinner arrives soon after that, on Skinner's shoulders. She tosses the dead ram on the ground, gives Dorian a suspicious look, and draws out her knife. “Dinner,” she says, still looking at Dorian.

“What an extraordinary ram,” Dorian remarks hastily, probably to underline what's meant by _dinner_. He's not lying, though; the ram's wool is unlike the Bull’s ever seen, of peculiar shade of gold and purple.

“Um,” Stitches says, looking at the ram.

“What?” Skinner asks.

Stitches exchanges a look with Krem. “Nothing,” says Krem, and looks uneasily at the Bull.

“I'll flay it,” Skinner says, and doesn't waste time in doing so.

“...We'll pay the guy,” the Bull says. The ram's dead now, anyway.

x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the eight little elephants hit the road...

Their co-operation doesn't start smoothly, precisely.

Dorian stares at the Bull, his face a mixture of disbelief and hope of having heard incorrectly. “You _smashed_ the ocularum?”

Rocky expertly looks innocent on the other side of the fire, so the Bull shrugs, taking the responsibility like a good leader.

Dorian doesn't appreciate it. “First you kill those who would have answers, then you destroy the very thing the answers are _abou_ _t_!”

“As an alternative to leaving potentially dangerous cultist magic crap around? Yeah.”

Dorian radiates anger, more so than the Bull deems reasonable over a cracked skull that isn’t even his. “How very qunari of you, breaking everything you know nothing about because it's _potentially dangerous magic crap_.”

The Bull doesn't let it get to him and valiantly refrains from remarking about the typical Vint way of finding a way to exploit anything they see. Instead he says, “Anyway, you said there are more of those around.”

“Yes, scattered somewhere around the Hinterlands,” Dorian says sourly. “Fortunately I do have another location in mind. Unless you chanced to pass it on your way, of course. In which case I’m sure we’ll all have lots of fun while searching for skull shards all across this blighted area.”

They’ve decided to find another of the skulls, which is how their argument started. Dorian has told them what he claims is all he knows of the Venatori's plans: the Vints have shut themselves in Redcliffe castle to only send out patrols to work on the oculara. Why, Dorian can’t, or doesn’t want to say, but whatever the Venatori's goal is, he wants to uncover it. Also, apparently three of the cultists have managed to piss Dorian off so badly that Dorian wants them in particular dead. The Bull asked Dorian about it, but the mage replied very elusively about the Venatori pissing off everyone at the moment, so the Bull let it lie. It was evident that Dorian would not say another word about his personal reasons unless he were properly interrogated, and as he's not their prisoner, per se, and the qunari interrogation methods aren't particularly gentle, the Bull decides to use another method: waiting and seeing if he drops his defences eventually. They’ve got some wading ahead anyway.

Dorian's waiting, too. Waiting and watching and probably calculating his chances. He's making sure that Skinner's never behind his back and the Bull always in his line of vision. The Bull’s tested it a couple of times, lagging behind under the pretence of talking to Rocky (or to Dalish, who's taken a habit of trailing behind Dorian and peering at the complex engravings in his staff; sometimes her lips move a little, like she's reading something). Every time Dorian's slowed his pace, too, bent to correct a buckle on his boots – which isn’t a bad sight all considered – or pretended to stop to take a better look at their surroundings. He probably thinks he was being discreet. Or that one missing eye turns a person half-blind, which is a common mistake people tend to make when they see the eye-patch. Like a missing eye lessened wits or the ability to perceive, or both.

He's also trying to become indispensable to them, which is mildly annoying but also smart in itself. Dorian knows he's got the weaker hand, and he's trying to play the cards to his advantage. It's a game; he clearly has knowledge that could benefit the Bull, but how much more does he know than what he's revealed to them? He's doing it on purpose, every time he speaks: I know that you know that I know, but how much do you _know_ that I know, and how much do you _think_ that I know? So they keep playing, each distrusting the other while pretending not to. For the most part, the Bull lets his guys handle it, he himself content to listen.

It’s almost… well, fun. If the bigger picture was put aside and only Dorian left in the centre of it.

“So, the Venatori are using those skull things to find something… to find something?” Rocky asks Dorian as they walk.

“I believe so, yes. I suspect that the oculara reveal -”

“Skulls, Vint,” Krem interjects. “You can call them what they are.”

“- that the _oculara_ reveal either a complex key to some door the Venatori want opened, badly, or a map to the location of that door at the very least. What remains unclear is what it is exactly that they expect to find, and why it is so important to them.”

“So what _are_ those skulls? Don't look like the normal thing people have at the end of their necks,” Stitches inquires.

“Perhaps if you _hadn't_ killed the three potential informants, you might not have the need to ask.”

Skinner squints at him. “How do you even know all this, if you aren't with them?”

“It might have escaped your notice, but I have a pair of eyes and ears each, and no small amount of sharp wits to aid me. And a skill to eavesdrop.”

“No offence,” says the Bull, when Dorian hesitates once again and decides to alter the direction they’re heading to, “but it's a pity you're not as good at orienteering as at eavesdropping. You sure you've actually got the location? 'Cause it kinda looks like you haven't.”

Dorian directs an imperious glare at him. “If you _doubt_ me, the Iron Bull, you are free to gather your charges and go looking elsewhere.”

Hate as the Bull admit it, for all its literal absence Dorian's figurative sleeve isn't empty. He knows another location of the fuck-ass skulls, or at least pretends to, which, to be honest, is still more than what the Chargers have got. Dorian is their key to information, at least until they find more Vints, which Dorian knows and is taking advantage of. But he also knows that with one wrong move he'll find a knife between his ribs, so it's also possible that the location he has in mind is not that of the skull, but of an ambush.

“Nah, the sidekicks and I will stay,” says the Bull, who still finds Krem's bristling hilarious.

“Then kindly keep your unhelpful commentary to yourself.”

“It could be a little more helpful if you shared the information with us. No offence, but -”

“You _are_ aware that the more you keep repeating that, the more offence I’m bound to take?”

“- but you don't look like a tracker.” Also, if Dorian's leading them to an ambush, it would be good to have at least an approximate idea of the surroundings. After the weeks spent in the Hinterlands with the boss, the Bull's got a pretty good picture of the whole area.

Dorian doesn't know that, which is probably why he crosses his arms and rolls his eyes like Krem did just a little earlier. “Oh, do pardon me. I assume then that if I tell you that I'm looking for a hill in a thicket infested with bears in the western parts of the Hinterlands, you'll know exactly where to go?”

Actually… “Yeah.”

Dorian raises a sceptical brow.

“We are going to a wrong direction,” the Bull tells him. “We need to head west of the river, the one you passed yesterday when you were trying to run from us.”

“I wasn't -”

“So if we want to find your skull, we turn this way.” The Bull demonstrates which way exactly by grabbing Dorian by the shoulders and turning him westwards. He's got solid arms, muscular, for a human, and a mage.

Dorian jerks from him a little. “Are you serious?”

“Dead.”

Dorian regards him, probably debating whether or not to trust the Bull. The Bull, in turn, lets him have the moment. If they want to get anywhere, they've got to place a little trust in one another, like the Bull already did when he let Dorian take the lead. And, well, they can't clear a mess until there is one, anyway.

Apparently Dorian comes to the same conclusion, because he sighs and gestures at the Bull magnanimously. “Very well then. Do set our course.”

The fact that Dorian lets them pick the way lessens somewhat the Bull's suspicions of him and confirms his hunch that Dorian's not a direct threat to them. He's definitely playing his own game, but it doesn't seem to include deliberately harming them – yet, at least. Doesn't mean he's trustworthy in any other respect, but hey, the Bull's worked with worse.

He reconsiders his stance later, when the sun's starting to set. They pass the stronghold that they cleared from smugglers with the boss some weeks earlier. Lavellan had then decided to leave the building as it is, but the thing with outlaws is that killing them doesn't root them out – like with roaches or darkspawn, more will come. Which is why a stronghold, falling apart as it may be, is too advantageous to leave unoccupied.

The bandits notice them first, which is fair, considering they've got a watchtower. Still, their ambush doesn't take by surprise anyone but Dorian, who, apparently, has never been taught that seemingly abandoned buildings in the woods always, _always_ mean trouble.

The bandits strike when they're passing a hill. Skinner, who's got the sharpest eyes as well as ears, shouts a warning before anyone else sees anything, and Dalish's barriers are quick enough to stop the first arrow, meant for Dalish herself. The element of surprise lost, the bandits emerge from behind their trees and bushes up on the hill, and from there, it's mostly routine.

Two archers hold their ground, but the swordsmen and a large brute with a maul raise their weapons and charge down the hill. It’s a stupid move, to swing the sword just for the show, and even more stupid to leave the upper ground. Rookies, the lot of them, but by attacking the Chargers they’ve taken the choice out of the Bull’s hands; you start the game, you play the game, novice or not.

The only potential threat in this fight is the fact that the Bull's got a Vint behind his back. It's not impossible that Dorian take this as his cue to turn against them or attempt to flee, but the Bull’s got to trust his men on watching it – he himself focuses on the brute already leaping towards him.

Turns out Dorian neither runs nor turns at the Chargers. Instead, the Bull sees a flash from the corner of his eye – _a flash_ in the sense of _if someone tossed a candle into a barrel filled with Rocky’s mixtures –_ and for one jarring moment the Bull fears that the mage has lost control of himself. When he gets to steal another glimpse, though, he’s bound to change his mind: Dorian’s eyes are sharp and his lips are pressed in a concentrated line as he manages his staff to direct spells at the archers, who remain uphill. The Bull gets to see how Dorian drives the blade end of his staff into a charging bandit and uses the momentum to spin and draw a glyph in the air without breaking the movement.

_Well shit_ , he gets to think, before his brute is on him and he’s got to focus on his own fight.

He continues to keep some part of his attention on Dorian, though, as much as his opponent allows; he might be impressed, sure, but he’s not stupid. Besides, observing Dorian’s fighting style helps him add details into his image of the guy, to get a grasp of the whole picture. The battle has the benefit of keeping Dorian too distracted to focus on keeping up an act, so the Bull draws out his fight with the brute just to make some observations.

It doesn’t take long to realise that what Dorian’s spells have in intensity, they lack in efficiency. Instead of staying on the back and supporting the melee fighters or focusing on incapacitating the archers, like Dalish's doing, Dorian rushes in the middle of the fight like his mage skirts were any real defence to his sorry ass, and picks his targets inconsistently, aiming at whoever looks like the biggest threat on the battlefield in general. Grim and Stitches, both deft with swords, keep within two steps from him, but Dorian keeps glancing over his shoulder like he distrusts either their ability, or their willingness to cover his back. Two conclusions: Dorian's not used to real battle, and he's never fought in a team before.

Then the Bull’s opponent starts pressing his attacks with new vigour, and when he hears Grim shout something to Dorian, he doesn't have time to turn look. The brute swings his maul with two hands, and the blow would've taken the Bull’s shoulder if it had hit. But the guy's too slow, and he's left his side wide open like it's early Satinalia. The Bull doesn't have time to attack with his axe, so he prepares for a dive in to unbalance the man and to knock the weapon off his hands – but just before he begins his leap, the brute freezes on spot. Freezes, as in ice-freezes. Solid.

The Bull whirls around to see Dorian spreading his arms, and then the familiar tingling covers the Bull's skin – a barrier, but not one of Dalish's green ones. Instead it's faintly purple, and though the feeling of a barrier is familiar, he's not used to Dorian's magic; the unfamiliarity of it prickles irksomely. The same vaguely purple shimmer covers Grim, who's beside Dorian and whose quick lunge is the only thing that saves the Vint from a swordsman's blade. Dorian's toppled to the ground with a yelp, but he throws a quick bolt of electricity at the bandit anyway, even though Grim's sword's going through the woman's neck already.

The Bull quickly turns back to his still frozen brute, takes a good swing, and shatters the bastard where he stands. Nice, he’s got to admit. Always satisfying, to see the enemy shatter from one blow.

With that, he fight is quickly over. No casualties on the Chargers' part – as if an amateur band of bandits stood any chance – only a few minor cuts and bruises. Stitches takes a look at them all anyway.

While Stitches is still at it, the Bull goes to Dorian, who's sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, fingers absently running over the engravings in his staff. His eyes are closed.

“Hey,” the Bull says, and Dorian cracks one of his eyes open.

He doesn't say anything, so the Bull continues, “The thing you did with the ice. And the barrier. You shouldn't have.”

Dorian sighs and closes his eye again. He runs a quick hand across his upper lip to smooth his moustache. “By all means,” he says, “Stop showering me with gratitude, I'm not doing it for your thanks.”

“Not what I'm saying. I had the guy there. There's no need to rush in the middle of things and waste time on _someone else's_ barrier when you're under attack yourself. Without Grim you’d have a sword in just about here.” He gestures at Dorian’s belly, where there’s a distinct lack of anything resembling an armour. “Dalish would've covered me if necessary. We've got a way of working.”

Dorian peers at him, lips tightening into a line. “Well then. I am deeply sorry for overstepping onto your territory. If it makes you feel better, it wasn't intentional. Think of it as a reflex. One that I'll make sure to try to suppress next time we're ambushed, if you're so eager to become a pincushion. To each their own, and so on.”

A guy could have worse reactions than throwing protective barriers over you in battle, is the thing. The Bull just didn't expect a stray Vint to have it, especially at the expense of his own safety. “Not saying you did wrong. Just that you don't need to overdo it.”

“Duly noted.”

Shit, he's offended the guy, hasn't he? Ruffled his feathers, scrapped his pride. His point stands, though.

“Haven't been in battles much, have you?” the Bull asks and sits beside Dorian, who, judging by his look, is not pleased that the Bull's not gone yet.

“What gave it away, I wonder? I do rather excel at duels, but that's not a form of fighting rogues and bandits seem to favour. More is the pity.” He grins abruptly, all teeth and wicked eyes. “I do put on an excellent show.”

Yeah, _that_ the Bull won’t even try to deny. Figures, though, if Dorian's done duels – that would explain his apparent need to be in the centre of fight, and he doesn't really strike the Bull as a guy who would content to quietly hover in the back.

He lets the silence stretch for a few moments before continuing, “What I'm saying is that yeah, in a fight we all have each other's back. But first and foremost everyone takes care of his own hide. You've got to trust your teammates to handle themselves. When you've got your own ass covered, you can help with somebody else's. You've got guts to run to the middle of the fight in those skirts, but those guts won't do any good when they’re spilling out of your belly.”

“Thank you for the mental image of that.” Dorian haves a deep sigh, but his eyes aren't in it – he looks like he's re-evaluating his situation, but there’s a spark of humour there as well, lighting up the grey irises. “First, I'm not wearing a skirt. Second, you are not one to admonish me on that, running around entirely shirtless and engaging the strongest enemy on the battlefield.”

“Hey, I'm built for it. Besides -”

Before the Bull gets to educate Dorian about qunari heritage and clothing, something drops into Dorian's lap so that he jumps; a flagon. They both look up to see Krem looming over them. “Don't mind him, altus,” Krem says good-naturedly. “Chief's got a thing or two to learn about taking care of himself before helping others, too. The big old lummox should take his own advice once in a while. Wouldn't want him to lose another eye.”

“Thanks, Krem,” the Bull says. “Your concern is touching.”

Dorian looks between them, perplexed, holding the flagon in his hands like he doesn't know what to do with it. The Bull takes a look at the sky; it's red, and it will be dark soon.

“Right. Let's get moving. We'll break camp behind a hill nearby, further from the road.”

When darkness falls they've already got the tents up and a fire going. They've still got plenty of the lucky ram's meat to make a meal, and Grim, who, surprisingly, is the best cook out of them, is stirring some herbal drink to go with it in a small pot over the fire.

When they stopped to build the camp, Dorian offered his help almost insistently. The Chargers work efficiently, everyone knows their job, but Dorian had insisted that he do something. When it turned out that his fumbling with the tents more hindered than helped, he had been tasked with the fire. It's not a big deal for a mage, but hey, at least Dorian offered. Not something every guest at the Chargers' fire has done. Helping with the evening routines and casting unnecessary barriers in fights? Frankly, not bad of a guy who potentially could try turning his cloak on them. Which, to be honest, the Bull doesn't picture him really doing. He's never one to lower his guard like a rookie after the first show of kindness, but he's got a hunch about Dorian, and so far his hunches have served him well.

What does surprise him is that the Chargers seem to think the same. Well, most of them; Skinner's not interested in talking to Dorian at all, and Rocky's still a little sore about the animated corpses from where they first met, but the rest seem to have accepted him as a temporary guest companion. Stitches is his politely diplomatic self; Grim, near whom Dorian mostly stayed in the battle, is friendly in his non-verbal way, though Dorian probably can't tell the difference; and Krem seems to deem him a decent guy for an altus, probably because of the shit he pulled out in the fight.

But the worst of all is Dalish. She’s taken a shine in the guy since the beginning, and now, after seeing Dorian in action, she lets it flourish openly. It wouldn't be bad if it was only her fascination with Dorian's fancy robes – silk, on the road, _seriously_? – and his pretty staff (about which the Bull had been quick to make a remark that, sadly, went unappreciated by everyone else but Rocky – to the extent of Stitches punching him straight on a small slash he’d got in the fight. _Aren’t you a healer,_ the Bull had asked him. _I need work,_ Stitches had explained with a shrug, and that had been that).

But Dalish also has _questions_.

A whole lot of questions.

“Dorian,” Dalish says conversationally, and squeezes between him and Grim, handing a cup of steaming tea to the mage. “Would you rather become an abomination or an arcane horror?”

Dorian turns to her. “I beg your pardon?”

Dalish happily repeats her question, and then she and Dorian lapse into magical demony crap the Bull would rather not hear about in fucking dark, or, you know, _ever_.

“If you had to die by your own magic, which spell would you choose?” continues Dalish.

“Would you prefer death or tranquillity?” asks she, fascinated.

“Which demon would you be, if you had to choose one?” she for some fucking reason wants to know.

“Which demon would you _realistically_ be if you hadn't a choice?” demands she after hearing Dorian’s response.

And Dorian – Dorian answers her every question with all the seriousness, contemplating between the possibilities and weighing the options. It might have been cute, seeing Dalish bonding like that with another mage, if it weren't for the topic. The Bull doesn't know, and isn't sure he _wants_ to know if Dorian merely humours her, or if that's normal mage-talk. Shit, maybe in Tevinter it is. But Dalish looks delighted, and the Bull wonders if she feels isolated from other people of her kind. If this line of conversation is something she needs to have. Still, even if that’s the case, it doesn't make it any nicer to hear.

“You’ve never mentioned any of that crap before,” he remarks to Dalish.

“Well, ser, you don’t hear the whispers,” she replies, shrugging, like it’s fucking nothing.

“Thanks for that. Good night to you too,” the Bull grumbles at them, and is largely ignored. Only Rocky pats his arm and silently offers his flask.

Dalish only stops with her questions once she overhears Stitches recall an old job they had in Orlais. Dorian makes some offhand comment about Orlesians, which reminds Krem of another job, and he hijacks the conversation, apparently considering it vital for Dorian to know the embarrassing shit they've done. Or, in this case, the embarrassing shit the Bull's done.

“That was in Orlais,” Krem’s telling Dorian, ignoring Rocky, who knows the story and is already laughing in advance. “And of course the Chief accepts the dinner invitation, _because free Orlesian food_. And of course he attends the dinner in his typical attire.”

At this, Dorian spares a withering glance at the Bull's trousers and pointedly looks like someone stabbed his very soul. “Oh, he would, wouldn't he.”

The Bull flexes a little, and winks. Dorian looks _offended_.

“Absolutely,” Krem confirms. “So the hostess can't take her eyes off Chief's formidable man-bosoms – you've seen how he likes to flex them to impress pretty people – yeah, like that – and her husband...”

Krem goes on, and the Bull's got to admit that it's a funny story, at least when told like that by someone who was only a spectator. In reality it was slightly less fun to fend off an angry noblewoman's duel challenges with his pants caught in his ankles while half in bed with her husband, but Krem never gets tired of telling it, and it's the only story that always makes even Grim utter an actual laughter instead of his amused huffs.

Dorian laughs as well, like a man who hasn't heard a good tale in too long a time. It's a rich sound, fits with his extravagant looks, sounds sincere. Krem looks satisfied in a smug way, like he always does when he gets people laugh with one of his stories, and the hint of tension in Dorian's shoulders eases. He's a good-looking guy in general, but when he laughs and forgets to be on his toes all the time, he's attractive on a whole new level. Yeah, so maybe he's a dozen calculated acts put together, but his seams are sound and he pulls smart remarks out of the thin air as effortlessly as he breathes, and damn if that kind of control isn’t appealing.

The Bull generally likes pretty things, but quick wit and intelligence? _Hot_. Especially when combined with a face like Dorian's.

Still: he's got a job, and more unanswered questions than he'd like.

“Hey, Dorian,” he says, casual, when Stitches, Skinner, and Grim have withdrawn to their shared tent, and Rocky occupies Dalish with questions about the potential uses of her magic in his grenades.

Dorian turns to him, a languid movement, but a hint of wariness in his eyes. Still, he's smiling. “Yes?”

“Been thinking. Tomorrow we'll probably reach the skull thing, if it’s still where you think it is. What are the odds we'll find more Venatori there?”

“I cannot say. We should proceed with caution, in any case. They will have found out about the destroyed ocularum and the killed unit by now, I should think, and they've never been of very forgiving sort.”

“No? Sounds like someone I know,” The Bull says, and softens his prodding with a smile. “Also, you know that, because..?”

Dorian sighs and raises his hand to smooth his moustache – something he seems to do whenever he feels threatened, the Bull's beginning to notice. “Ah. Looks like you insist on getting your answers sooner rather than later. Well, I suppose I cannot blame you for that, although I do repeat that my personal grudge is just that – personal. It's of no concern to you, or anyone else.”

“Yeah, well. If we're going to help you kill those guys, I think that makes it a little our concern, too.”

“Fasta vass,” Dorian mutters, and makes a resigned gesture. “Very well. To put it shortly: I have a friend.”

“Only the one?” teases the Bull.

“Well, I suppose not any longer,” Dorian answers crisply, “as I suspect he's dead by now.”

Oh. Shit.

“He is, was, my contact within the Venatori. I told you the truth – I have never been involved with them. My friend kept me updated about the situation – he… was technically a Venatori, but only in name, and only because his personal situation left him no other choice.”

“And you think they caught him?”

“Yes. In the last message I received he wrote that he has reason to suspect that he and-- that his situation has changed, and that should he not send another note in a few days, I was to expect the worst. It has been now nearly a fortnight.”

Dead, then, or worse, whatever _worse_ could be, but considering the cult they're talking about… The Vints have always been creative when it comes to worse. The Bull doesn't see the point in rousing false hope, but, crap. Losing a comrade, a friend, is tough, and not knowing for sure is even worse. “Any chance he's just captured, not killed?” He, or _the_ _y_ – Dorian's slip didn't go unnoticed.

Dorian shrugs. “Perhaps. But my homeland raised me better than to maintain foolish hopes.”

“Remember how I met you, Chief?” Krem asks. He’s been sitting quietly beside them, poking the fire with a stick. “That's as forgiving as they get in Tevinter, and they weren't even evil cultists.”

Yeah, okay, fair point.

“So, you might understand my investment in finding out what happened,” Dorian says, somewhat uncertainly, casting a thoughtful look at Krem. “Can I consider your curiosity satisfied?”

Not really, but the Bull doesn't feel like pressing. What can he say? He likes the guy. He'll get his answers when they find more cultist ass to kick.

x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until...

They find the magic skull by the afternoon of the following day. Spotting it was not that hard when they knew what they were looking for; the skull juts on top of a pole, and the crystal in the eye socket gleams enough to catch the eye.

“Finally,” Dorian says as they climb up the hill to it. “This is the first ocularum I see in proximity.”

“It feels… weird,” Dalish mutters, glaring at the skull and lagging behind when they reach the ledge with the pole.

“No shit. It's a magic skull on a pole,” Skinner responds sharply.

The Bull's crept out by the thing, too, even though he doesn't sense any magic-y shit Dalish apparently does. Still, he follows Dorian to inspect it. Dorian himself doesn't look much bothered, but considering he animates skeletons for a hobby, it's not surprising that bones don't weird him out. He leans in to inspect the skull, laying careful fingers on top of it.

“So?” the Bull asks, glancing around. The ledge they're standing on offers a pretty good picture of their immediate surroundings, but the hill continues to rise behind them, and the top is secluded by trees. With a nod of his head, he sends Skinner and Grim to scout a bit – wouldn't want to get caught with their pants in the ankles.

“This is… fascinating, in a macabre way,” Dorian tells him, not taking his eyes off the skull, bending forward to apparently look through the crystal in its fucking socket. The Bull doesn't want to know what Dorian sees in there, but at least _he_ gets a nice eyeful. Pity he can’t properly appreciate it just now.

“Yeah, sure, whatever. So how does it work?”

“See the crystal in the right eye?” Dorian gestures at where exactly, straightening to regard the Bull. “We have to look through it to see what the oculara are designed to reveal. There's a hole in the back of the skull, the crystal was inserted here. We must look through it to detect the location of the shards.”

“Okay, hold. Shards?”

Some of the Bull’s discomfort must've made it into his voice, because when Dorian turns to answer him, there’s an evident defensive note in his tone. “I did say I have a friend within the Venatori ranks,” he says a little edgily. “And yes, shards. They are the supposed key or map to what the Venatori are after. The oculara are designed to detect them within a certain radius. I know nothing more of them.”

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Skinner mutters under her breath, but is largely ignored.

“So we should smash the thing and be done with it,” Krem says, a little hopeful.

“And lose the chance to find out more about what the Venatori are looking for?” Dorian snaps. “We don't know what it is. It could be something harmless if left untouched, but we don't know if leaving it be will backfire at us. Not to mention the possible advantage we could gain if we snatch their prize just under their noses.”

“The spirit lingers,” Dalish mumbles and shifts closer, carefully, like she doesn't really want to. She turns to Dorian. “Can you hear it?”

“Naturally.”

“So there's some demon in it?” the Bull growls. “Great.”

“Not any more,” Dorian hastens to argue. “What lingers is merely a memory of the spirit that once inhabited the body.”

“Not any _more_?”

“Well – yes.” Dorian's hand rises to smooth his moustache, and that alone is enough to hit on the alarm in the Bull's head, even without the talk of demons. There's something that Dorian knows, but doesn't want them knowing, which means they must dig the truth out.

He steps forward. “Start talking, mage. What _are_ these demon skulls, exactly?”

Dorian's eyes move between the Bull and his guys behind him, and the situation reminds the Bull of the first time they met him, with Dorian's back to a wall and the Chargers around him. He pulled his messed up magic at them then and managed to escape. Well, he won't now, if he tries.

“No need to sharpen your swords,” Dorian utters coolly and lifts his chin. He gestures at the skull with a careless wave of his hand, assuming a mockingly expert tone. “I'm unaware of the precise details, but the oculara are made of the tranquil. I will put it shortly to save your patience: a demon is forced to possess a tranquil, immediately upon which the tranquil is killed with a blow on his head. The tranquil is dead, the demon is expired, and the Venatori have yet another tool to find what they seek.”

“That's… really messed up,” Krem says, disgusted.

Yeah, to put it lightly. Trust the Vints to find the most sickening way to get what they want. “And you think that's _fascinating_?”

“Not the murder of tranquils,” Dorian snaps at him. “I'm neither a monster nor a barbarian. I only meant the reaction of the crystal to the lingering spirit. And I did add that I find it macabre, if you recall.”

“So the spirit is not trapped there?” Dalish asks warily.

“No. The spirit has departed. I think.”

“You think?”

“Fasta vass, I don't know, I'm not the one who created these things! I told you what I know, the rest is but speculation!”

“I don't like this,” Rocky mutters and casts a vehement look at the skull.

“You think I do?” the Bull grumbles. “Well, we've got our orders. We take this to the boss, she will decide what to do with it.”

Dorian’s brows knit together at that. “Who is this boss of yours, I wonder?” he asks. “I find that all this sharing information has been awfully one-sided in our little arrangement.”

There probably isn't much advantage in hiding the truth, now, so the Bull volunteers it. “The Inquisition,” he tells with a shrug.

“The _Inquisition_?” Dorian stares at him, and his surprise turns to anger in a flash. “You work for the Inquisition, and you didn't deem it worth mentioning to me?”

“Hey, you see a suspicious Vint in the woods, you don't go revealing all your cards before even saying hello.”

If the Bull thought joking would placate Dorian, he was wrong. It doesn’t. Dorian’s eyes flare with incredulity. “Suspicious Vint, he says! We _offered_ _our help_ , but it was thrown back into our faces, and look at the result! Felix and Alexius are almost certainly dead, and with no contacts to the new Venatori leaders, whatever useful information we had to offer to your Herald is now useless. Suspicious Vint, indeed! I suppose your Herald is infinitely powerful, if she can afford to sneer at assistance like that.”

Something in that rings a bell. Felix and Alexius. Felix and… “Crap,” says the Bull.

“Shit,” says Krem at the same time; he was there when Lavellan returned from her meeting with the rebel mages. “So _you’re_ the some Pavus from Minrathous. The friend of the poor dying Felix.”

Dorian whirls at Krem. “ _Excuse_ _me_?”

“Yeah,” says the Bull, turning to Krem and ignoring Dorian. “Wasn't a ruse, then.”

“A _ruse?_ ” Dorian doesn't apparently take well being ignored – with three long strides he reaches the Bull and Krem. “You thought Felix and I were a ruse? You thought -” And then he laughs, with a hand over his face, a short, ugly sound.

How hasn’t the Bull connected the dots earlier? The whole picture was practically given to him when they met Dorian. Crap, if he intends to serve well, he's got to be on top of his game, but this shows that he isn't – he's let himself slip too deep into his role, forget his true purpose, and look how that turned out.

“The boss figured your tale was a trap,” he says. “She went to templars for help and sent us here to find out what's going on with the cultists.”

“Well, you may report to her that due to her _suspicion_ quite possibly the finest man in entire Thedas is--” Dorian stops abruptly and draws a sharp breath in, then exhales slowly, closing his eyes. “That was beneath me. I apologise. Of course she should be wary when… when dealing with my countrymen.”

Just then a sharp whistle interrupts them, and moments later, smoke begins to rise over the trees in the direction where Grim and Skinner went.

“Company,” Stitches states the obvious.

“Good,” says Dorian. “I rather find myself in the mood for killing some Venatori.”

“There's a man after my own heart,” the Bull grunts and unstraps his axe. A good fight could bring Dorian out of his head and help them all blow out some steam, and at any rate they'll get fresh information. “Let's go! Leave at least one of them alive – you hear me Rocky?”

“Horns up,” shouts Rocky, hand already in the pockets of his grenade belt.

They find four live Venatori and two dead ones. One of the dead cultists is a mage; she was probably the first taken down, Skinner's work – the Bull would recognise her specific handprint on any slit throat. Only one mage remains, and he's obviously trying to keep out of the harm's way, taking cover behind a large rock and yelling at his fellow Vints. As the Bull watches, the Vint summons a lightning bolt straight at Grim at the same time as Dalish casts her barrier. The lightning fizzles and evaporates, but Grim staggers nonetheless, disoriented.

A strong hand lands on the Bull's forearm in an iron grip; Dorian. “That mage!” he's shouting, “Don't kill that mage!”

“He a friend of yours?” the Bull grunts and swings his axe at a charging swordsman, who manages to evade his blow and jump at him from his blind side.

This time, the purple tingle of Dorian's barrier doesn't irritate at all.

“The only kind of friends I have left,” Dorian answers through his bared teeth and thrusts the blade of his staff straight through the Vint's bare neck, “is the kind that I prefer dead only _after_ they've talked.”

“Shit,” the Bull says, because, _shit_ , he might have joked about it earlier, but Dorian sure as fuck knows how to handle his staff. Also, shit, because right then the Vint's lightning strikes through Grim's barrier with enough force to completely black him out.

“Skinner!” the Bull bellows. “Magebane! Krem, Rocky! Keep those bastards off her!”

“Allow me,” Dorian murmurs, and when the Bull turns to look at him, he's struck with an instinct to step away from him. Dorian's practically oozing his purple magic now, but it's got a different feel to it, something that tugs at all the wrong cords behind the Bull's ribcage, and his insides lurch unpleasantly.

Dorian slams his staff on the ground, and in that instant the two remaining swordsmen start screaming like piglets under a butcher's knife. One of them drops his sword and slaps his hands over his eyes, and the other starts frantically slashing the air with his sword, like he's trying to hit multiple somethings only he can see. Krem and Rocky exchange a bewildered look before shrugging at each other and finishing the guys off, and Skinner sneaks behind the mage while he's trading spells with Dalish. In a matter of moments, the battlefield calms down; the cultists are dead, except for the magister, who Skinner sent to sleep with the hilt of her dagger.

The Bull turns to Dorian. “What did you do?”

Dorian smiles at him, and it’s a nasty smile, one that effectively once again reminds the Bull that he's travelling with a fucking necromancer. “Not blood magic, rest assured,” the necromancer says and raises his hand to smooth his moustache. “I'm afraid the specifics can wait for a better moment. Right now I suggest we make sure our new friend here won't be up to any trouble when he rejoins us.”

They tie the mage up and force enough magebane down his throat to keep him cut off from the Fade for a good day at least. They strip the corpses of anything valuable or useful, including what looks like orders found in their prisoner’s robes, and choose a spot to put up camp under the hill, despite Dorian's insistence that they camp closer to the skull – Dorian loses that debate one to seven. They've got a pot on the fire and tents erected when their prisoner finally comes to.

Dorian jumps on his feet immediately when he hears him cough, and strides to the magister with his long legs. “Lucius,” he says, as soon as the mage's eyes focus on him.

The Bull puts away the orders he’s just started to unfold to follow Dorian, and stops right beside him, arms crossed; let the prisoner realise how small and useless he is without his magic. The Chargers don't even pretend that they aren't listening, not even Grim, who's bandaged and cranky but overall well.

The Vint looks mildly surprised on seeing Dorian. “Pavus?”

“Good of you to remember me,” Dorian drawls almost pleasantly. He's smiling, but in a wolfish sort of way, a bit like on the battlefield earlier.

Lucius slips his eyes from Dorian to the Bull, and to his credit he manages to look mostly bored. It reminds the Bull a little of when the Chargers had Dorian surrounded that first time – maybe it’s a Vint thing, to look purposefully disinterested in the face of looming qunari? Maybe an altus thing, if keeping control of their expressions is so crucial in the upper circles of Tevinter society. Or maybe this Vint just understands that he's practically a corpse waiting to die; there's no way they're going to let him get back to his friends.

“Likewise,” Lucius says after a pause, looking back at Dorian. He really seems much more interested in seeing Dorian than the Bull. “Pleasure to see you, albeit a questionable one, as it always is. I see you have acquired a qunari pet. Wouldn't have expected that of you, to be honest, but then, you have always preferred to surprise. Particularly in your choice of… friends.”

“Quite,” Dorian responds flippantly. He’s still wearing the bland smile, but the hand he’s brought to his hip curls into a tight fist. “You, on the other hand, have chosen your company rather predictably. And now that we are speaking of friends, there is someone I would like to inquire after.”

Lucius studies Dorian quietly for a moment, and then suddenly bursts into laughter. “Of course!” he laughs. “You are here about Alexius. I should have realised that the dog never strays far from its master. A former apprentice seeking to reconcile with his mentor?” He grins nastily. “Or, perhaps, you are here for his son? I did hear you were rather close back in Tevinter.”

Dorian’s smile twitches. The Bull notices that his fist is starting to tremble and takes over before Dorian can answer; if Alexius and Felix are killed, and this Lucius will be an ass about it, there's no guarantee of Dorian keeping his cool long enough for them to extract any useful information out of their prisoner. “A moment,” he says calmly, ignoring Dorian's irked glance. “Want to tell us a bit more about those skulls of yours first?”

“The skulls?” the Vint asks mildly, and somehow, even though he doesn’t say anything else, the arc of his brow conveys clearly his scepticism about the Bull’s ability to speak. He probably understands that his life is over as soon as they've got their information out of him, and stalls just to be annoying.

“The oculara,” Dorian clarifies impatiently.

Lucius looks between the Bull and Dorian, and understanding lights his eyes. “Oh,” he says, delighted. “ _Oh_. So someone _was_ sending our little secrets to you. Must have been Felix; quite honestly Alexius had become too passive to take such action himself. He was a bit of sad case, don’t you find? Pity, with all the potential he had.”

 _Was, had_. Yeah, like there really was any real hope there. The Bull steals a careful glance at Dorian, whose expression remains tight but otherwise controlled.

“So, Felix told you about the oculara,” Lucius continues conversationally. His tone is far too smug for the Bull’s liking. “How ironic, in hindsight. Funny that you should ask about it now.”

He’s goading. It's obvious that he’s goading, and Dorian must see it too, but he’s too emotionally involved to not take the bait. “What did you do to them?” he demands.

“We had them killed, of course,” Lucius says, like it’s nothing, like it’s no different from tossing away a rotten fruit. “Surely you understand that we cannot endure failure in our ranks, and Alexius did fail us in a rather vexing manner. Regrettable, but there you have it.”

Lucius' smile shifts into the sort of unpleasant that creeps under your skin and nibbles at your flesh from there. “Although, it must please you to hear that neither of their deaths went to waste.”

Dorian pales in his anger. “ _What did you do_ _?_ ”

Lucius' smile widens. “What else, Pavus? Tranquils _have_ been in such a short supply lately.”

The Bull catches the exact moment the implication hits Dorian. All colour drains from his already ashen face, and for a heartbeat nothing happens – and then there’s a hiss and lightning flares in Dorian’s palms with enough intensity to make the Bull instinctively jerk away from him. Before anyone can shout, move – or, shit, _react_ _–_ an electric cage surrounds Lucius and closes in on him with a roaring thunderbolt. Lucius doesn’t even get to scream – in another heartbeat it’s over.

When the smoke disperses, it reveals an unrecognisably charred corpse and Dorian, pale as death and chest heaving heavily. For that one moment nobody moves, but then Dorian turns on his heels and simply walks out of the camp.

“Dorian,” the Bull calls, but is ignored. Dorian disappears in the thicket.

The silence in camp is thick as Rocky's signature broth. The Chargers stand, eyes wide and directed at the corpse and at each other, until Stitches shakes out of the stupor and crouches beside the other bodies to rip a slice off a cloak. Wordlessly he wraps it around his hands and makes to drag the charred corpse away. Grim joins to help him.

“Chief,” Krem begins, but doesn't finish, only meets the Bull's eye.

He rubs his face with one hand. “Shit, I know. Shit.” He sighs. “Right. Get that as far from here as you can and clean the camp. I'll go after him.”

“He probably left because he doesn’t want us around right now,” Stitches points out.

“Don’t think it’s good to leave him alone right now.”

“Give him a little space, mother,” Krem, too, says, and maybe they’re right. So Bull stays in camp – grudgingly, but stays.

Dorian returns to them when it’s dark already and the Chargers are all sitting by the fire, each uneasily occupied with trivial tasks like cleaning their weapons or sorting healing herbs. He looks terrible. Oh, colour has mostly returned to his face and only a few strands are out of place from where they’ve obviously been finger-combed into submission, and there’s not a trace of the anguish that was there when the Bull last saw him. And that’s what makes him look terrible: he looks all calm and composed, but the facade is brittle, his light smile a bit too forced to be pleasant, the effort to close off any tales twisting into something ugly under his skin. He looks like a corpse himself.

He halts at the edge of the camp, gaze sweeping over them all and not looking at any of them. “Ah, I see I missed the preparations for the night. Apologies.”

“Dorian,” says Bull, tentatively.

Dalish is already on her feet, picking up the bowl she had put aside for Dorian. “Take some broth,” she says, grabbing the wooden ladle in the pot.

“Thank you,” says Dorian, and the Bull’s hopes get up, just to fall again when Dorian continues, “but I find myself rather tired today.”

“You should eat something,” Stitches insists. “Even if you don’t feel it.”

“Again, thank you, but I do think I’d prefer to withdraw for the night. Well! Good night, everyone.” He walks straight through the camp, into the tent he’s been sharing with Stitches.

Dalish looks crestfallen, the laden still in her hands. Krem rises to pry it from her fingers. “He’ll feel better tomorrow,” he assures her. “After some sleep.”

Turns out Dorian doesn’t get much of that sleep, because long after only Grim is left to keep watch, the Bull hears rustling, and then someone’s opening the fastenings on his tent flap, and Dorian slips in.

“Did I wake you?” he asks in a low voice.

“No,” says the Bull, because it isn’t like he was getting any sleep either. He rises to rest on his elbows on his bedroll.

“Good,” says Dorian, voice still low and quiet – aware of the false feeling of privacy that the tent offers. He stays where he is, but even in the dark the Bull can feel his eyes on him.

“You doing all right, Dorian?”

“I recall you making a remark earlier, about dinner,” Dorian answers, illogically. “A couple of days ago. Well, we have eaten now.” He takes a step towards the Bull, who sits up and chooses not to point out that Dorian himself has eaten nothing.

“Uh, and..?”

Dorian moves briskly then, takes a few steps and, with determination, arranges himself on the Bull’s lap, thighs stretching to straddle him. Dorian places his palms on the Bull’s shoulders. “ _And_ we can move to the _after_ ,” he says, and surges in, firmly pushing his mouth against the Bull’s, opening his lips and trying to push his tongue through the line of the Bull’s.

“Whoa!” The Bull jerks back a little and quickly puts his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, pushes him away and keeps him there. “Hold on a minute, big guy. What’s going on?”

Dorian looks exasperated. “Bound and leashed,” he says. “I distinctly remember. You offered dinner first. Now it’s after.”

And yeah, that particular conversation does come to mind, but when Dorian tries to lean in and kiss him again, the Bull’s hand keeps him firmly in place. Dorian lets out a frustrated groan. “Hold on,” the Bull repeats.

“I will make it worth your while, I promise,” Dorian says, keeping his voice low. It doesn’t mask the desperate tone of it. Neither does Dorian’s smirk, and had the Bull not known better, shit, he might have just bought it. Dorian leans in slightly, as much as the Bull’s hand allows, and whispers, “You can be as rough as you like.”

The words twist unpleasantly in the Bull’s belly. “Listen, Dorian, I don’t think you’re in the best shape for that.”

“That’s for me to decide, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure. And for me to decide if I want to take you up on it or not.” The Bull’s hold on his shoulders remains firm and his gaze on Dorian’s eyes steady. “And I decide not to.”

Dorian withdraws a little, at that – or tries to, but the Bull’s hand keeps him in place. “I don’t understand. You’ve certainly made your interests clear in the past few days.”

“Sure, when you know what you’re doing. But it looks to me that right now you maybe don’t.”

“Stop coddling me, Bull,” Dorian hisses at him. “I know perfectly well what I’m doing, and rest assured, I’m doing it deliberately.”

“Yeah? So what _are_ you doing?”

Dorian gapes at him. “What am I doing? What am I--? What I’m _doing_ is avoiding lying in the dark and being slowly consumed by the thought that my best and only friend was murdered in the worst imaginable manner and turned into-- into--! Thank you, but no. In my experience such avoidance is best achieved with sex, pain, or alcohol. Alcohol is in short supply in this wretched wilderness, so I have two options left, and you seemed earlier perfectly happy to comply with either of them.”

The Bull’s insides twist, but he forces his voice to stay calm. “Sex or pain? Those are your options when dealing with grief?”

“I don’t see why there should be an _or_. I did say you can -”

“Stop. I’m not going to cause you pain that you’re in no condition to ask for. Or pleasure, for that matter.”

Under his hands, Dorian’s beginning to shake. “Bull, I already-- you have my full leave. Please.” He forces the last word out like it’s physically painful.

The Bull shakes his head. “No.”

“Fasta vass!” Dorian jerks, all composure crumbling down. He tries to pull back and off the Bull, but he keeps him in place. “What are you doing? I got the hint, no need to worry. I won’t bother you again. Just-- let go of me!”

“Dorian,” the Bull says quietly, insistently. “Come here.”

He doesn’t pull, doesn’t try to force Dorian in any way, simply squeezes his shoulders ever so lightly, but that’s enough. Dorian crumples forward, and the Bull gathers him against his chest, puts his arms around him and just hold him there as Dorian’s whole body shakes with poorly suppressed emotion. “Let it out, big guy,” the Bull murmurs gently, and Dorian gives fully in to him, a sob breaking free from his chest.

His body shakes and jerks violently, but Dorian cries silently, letting out only his tears and small, desperate gasps for breath. The Bull lays them both down, arranges them so that Dorian is curled in his arms, held, but not smothered.

In the morning, he wakes alone.

x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to pick the way.

Dorian is helping Grim with the fire when the Bull clambers out of his tent in the morning. He directs a cheerful smile at the Bull when he joins them.

“Good, you're finally up! Grim and I were just wondering if you've already read the orders we found in Lucius’ clothing. Here, have some tea.”

There's not a trace of the last night's breakdown on Dorian’s face, or tone, or body language, any other than slightly darker bags under his eyes. He doesn't shy away from the casual contact of their hands when the Bull takes the offered cup, but his eyes don't linger, and he turns away already to pour another cup for Dalish. The message is pretty clear: nothing happened between them. Still, the Bull feels compelled to test the waters. “Thanks. Hey, did you get some rest last night?”

Dorian's shoulders tense at the question, but he relaxes them quickly enough. “Very much so, thank you for the interest. Now, don’t keep us in suspense. What do our orders say?”

Yep. Didn't happen. Sure, not a problem with the Bull, so long as Dorian's got himself in check. They aren’t friends, after all, nothing more but travel companions, and as such any comfort beyond the necessary, which the Bull offered on the night before, is probably unwanted. So, he shrugs and pulls the orders out of his leather pouch; he hasn't had a proper look at them yet, either.

“ _Consult Vironius and Marcus about creating more oculara – we’ve not enough to locate all the needed shards. Don't waste time; they have both been assigned elsewhere. Report directly to me with the results. I’ll remain in Redcliffe castle until further orders from C. Don't keep me waiting._

_Severina”_

“Ah, good,” says Dorian, leaning over the Bull's shoulder to read the orders. His palm lands on the Bull’s back for support. “We have some names. Names who will likely have answers regarding these ‘further orders’.”

Not if they are charred before questioning, but the Bull's not enough of an insensitive asshole to point that out. Instead he neatly folds the orders and stuffs them back in his pouch. “Looks like it.”

Krem exhales through his nose. “Right. Back to Redcliffe, then?”

It feels an awful lot like wading back and forth across the Hinterlands with nothing to show for it – something that the Bull’s got a decent fill of with the boss already – but the chance to find any more detailed notes in the wilderness is unlikely. And now they at least have some idea of what the Vints want in the area, and an ocularum to study for those in the Inquisition who get crap out of stuff like that.

Their trip back to Redcliffe is mostly uneventful and comparatively swift, now that they've got no detours and disoriented guides. They restrict their stops to an absolute minimum and keep otherwise good time. Dorian blabbers through most of it, mainly to Dalish who seems to always have an ear for him (the girl's totally smitten, the Bull's sure of that), about some magic crap the Bull's got no desire to hear, and he can't help briefly wondering if that’s Dorian’s way of deliberately keeping him at bay. If so, it’s a needless effort on his side, because the Bull’s not going to prod, even though he kind of wants to. Because, as far as coping mechanisms go, forgetting helps only temporarily. It’s not really a sustainable way of dealing with grief and whatever else Dorian's probably keeping tightly bottled, but since he's not amenable to talking it out, the Bull leaves it at that. His job is to see what the Vints are plotting, not to pressure Dorian into talking, helpful as it might be to Dorian in the long run.

Redcliffe village is as empty of Vints as it was the last time they checked, so even Dorian risks joining the Chargers in the tavern when they arrive well after sunset on that same day. They take rooms for one night and sit down to plan their next move with shared jugs of ale, and that's what they're at when an Inquisition scout finds them some time later.

“A missive for you,” she says, handing the Bull a piece of parchment. Her gaze flickers to Dorian, but her expression doesn't change. “From Lady Herald. It arrived yesterday, with the orders to deliver it urgently to whichever camp you've been last sighted at.”

There's a hint of annoyance in her tone; clearly it was expected that the Bull would report in the camps the Inquisition has established in the area. Well, for the next time the boss will learn to make her orders more specific, no doubt. The Bull thanks the scout and waits until she leaves the tavern until opening the missive.

Its contents are short and clear: the main force of the Templars has arrived in Haven, and Lavellan plans to take another stand against the Breach in four days' time. She wants her people there for it, so the Bull is to return immediately upon receiving the note, with or without results of his own.

“What is it, Chief?” asks Krem, when Bull doesn't immediately tell them. Instead he rubs his chin thoughtfully.

They've got a lead: the orders found on that Lucius guy's body. A list of names, something to start investigating, and now they even know where. But he's serving the Inquisition. Closing the Breach is more urgent, and it's not like he's going to just charge blindly at a castle, anyway – that's something _he's_ learnt in his time. Besides, it's not like he'll be returning empty-handed: they have a magic skull and a good lead to offer to Red and her people.

And yet leaving now doesn't sit quite right with him.

“Nothing good, it seems,” says Dorian, who in fact does sit right by the Bull. “Everybody, try to act surprised.”

“Nah, nothing like that.” And it's not. Technically, it's good news, considering that the giant fucking hole in the sky will be closed as it should. Just… fuck. Last time Lavellan tried it, she was unconscious for three days and almost died. The Breach has to be closed, but the fact remains that none of them knows anything about it. Anything can happen. And so far, 'anything' has been a non-stop flow of demons.

Plus, he'd _really_ like to know more of what's going on in Redcliffe.

But he's got orders. And like he it or not, they've got to act about the Breach. There already is a hole in the sky. How much worse could it get? Couldn't, right?

“No offence,” says Dorian with a half-smile, “but it doesn't look like it's not.”

“We're heading back to Haven first thing tomorrow morning,” the Bull tells them. “The boss's going to close the Breach.”

By the silence that follows, the Bull can tell that he's not the only one who's made uncomfortable by the idea.

“Uh,” says Krem, “Great?”

“We aren't finished here,” Dalish says carefully.

“Yeah, well.” The Bull shrugs. “We've got orders. Boss wants everyone around.”

“Right. Never know what comes through this time,” says Krem _I'm-sure-there-won't-be-demons_ Brûlée.

“How about this,” the Bull grumbles, “No demon talk at the table.”

“Deal,” says Rocky, and drinks to that. The rest of the Chargers join in, and soon the evening starts to roll like any other, the awkward tension fading in correlation with the amount of drinks on the table. The Bull can't blame his guys for that; no one wants to sit all dark and gloomy when they can't really do anything about it anyway.

Dorian doesn't drop one comment about their unfinished business. The Bull watches how he frowns into his cup, then downs his ale and wipes his moustache with a swift, casual brush of his fingers, like he's done it a thousand times. Then he smiles, and joins the conversation as cheerfully as he did that morning.

It's only when the night grows older and the tavern quieter, with the rest of the Chargers either having gone to their rooms or to someone else's rooms, that Dorian turns to the Bull.

“I take it,” he begins, not even slurring even as he's drunk at least three mugs, “that our collaboration is nearing its end and we are to part ways with a few amicable words and a dramatic promise to never forget each other.”

There's a question, there, the Bull thinks, under the humour.

“Doesn't have to end,” he says, with careful ease. “You're free to go. But you could come with us, too. Join the Inquisition, maybe.”

Dorian shakes his head. “That door has already been closed to me, I'm afraid. Your Herald made her views on Tevinters quite clear when we last spoke. I doubt her mind will change, especially when you’ll report to her about the oculara. Besides-- I know it's not her doing, per se, but... I'm not sure I'd very much like to kneel at her feet after what befell Felix and Alexius.” He utters a small laughter, bitter. “I've too much pride, I've been told. And probably will be again, a time or two, in my lifetime.”

“What are you going to do?”

Dorian splays his fingers on the table and observes them for a moment, like the answer lies in the lines of his palms. “Continue on our lead,” he says after a while. “Felix risked his life to share this information. With what it cost him, I will not let it be in vain.” His hands curl around his empty cup, and when he raises his eyes to the Bull, it's with a sad smile that manages to wedge itself between the Bull's ribs, somehow. “In a better world, of the two of us it would have been him, who lived. Alas, the past cannot be altered, so all I can do is to ensure that he didn't die for nothing. I will get to the root of this.”

“Don't sell yourself short, big guy. I mean, not that I know you inside out, but you seem pretty decent to me. And a mage of your talent -” The Bull decidedly does not think of the necromancy as he says it, “- could give plenty to the Inquisition.”

“My mind is quite set. Just see if you can change it.”

That makes the Bull smile. “Let me guess, you've been called stubborn too?”

Dorian returns the smile, and his eyes crease with it. “Once or twice, perhaps.”

It's those crinkles that do it. Dorian seems to have himself under control now – he got to let the worst of it out the night before – but the Bull still finds himself reluctant to let him continue snooping on his own. He's emotionally involved, and that always doubles the chances of shit going sideways (and doesn’t the Bull know that). But it's not the Bull's decision, or his responsibility, no matter how he'd like it to be.

They sit quiet for a while, nursing their empty cups. Only a few patrons remain, and two serving girls have started wiping the tables and poking drooping patrons awake to either get a room or to get out.

“Bull,” says Dorian suddenly. “I must – apologise. For my conduct last night.”

“Dorian--”

Dorian quickly raises his hand. “No no, I insist you let me speak. I was… not entirely myself, and in any proper state of mind I never would have imposed myself on you like that. Neither how I first intended, nor how I actually ended up intruding. I would say it will not happen again, but, seeing as we are to part ways tomorrow anyway, it rings a little hollow. Nevertheless, it has been said now, and with that we can never mention it again.”

“You weren't imposing,” the Bull tells him. Dorian snorts, and he quickly amends. “Well, you did, sort of, with the sex thing. But not with the rest. I invited you to stay, remember?”

“Still, I did make quite a spectacle of myself. You've the patience of Andraste herself, I swear. But, I must insist: now that we've got it out, let us please close the matter forever.”

“You sure about that, big guy? I'm a pretty good listener. Just a guess, but seems to me you'd like to talk about it.”

Dorian stares at him a little incredulously. “About me harassing you in your tent?”

He snorts a laughter, can't help it. “About Felix. But hey, you want to talk about sex, I'm all good.”

Dorian keeps staring at him, like he's a puzzle that he can't solve. “Aren't you a peculiar one,” he says, at length.

“Yeah, I'm a snowflake,” he agrees with a cheeky grin that earns him an ungracious snort from Dorian.

The silence stretches between them again, but this time it's companionable and doesn't last for long.

“If I _were_ to talk about sex...” Dorian begins and turns sideways on his chair, one elbow leaning on the table, another on the back of the chair; chest open, towards the Bull. He doesn't continue, but lets his words hang in the air, obviously waiting for the Bull to take the hint.

The Bull grins. “Yeah?”

Dorian looks slightly affronted, like the Bull's isn't the response he's used to, but smooths it quickly behind a silky smile. “I find it's quite late,” he muses, “and I'll wager the serving girls wish to be rid of us by now.” He stands and lets his hand brush the Bull's shoulder. “I shall withdraw to my room. If you wish to finish our earlier discussion, perhaps you'd like to join me there. Otherwise, I bid you good night, and hope to see you tomorrow before we part ways.”

He doesn't wait for the Bull's answer, like it's all the same to him, like he knows he'll follow. The Bull rarely does that – follow others like this. He tends to let them come to him, to consciously make the effort so that there's no ambiguity about whether they really want it or not, and it's not like he's short on offers most of the time.

He gets up and goes after Dorian.

.

Jimmy welcomes them with open arms when they approach his house on the next morning. He smiles like they're his long-lost friends. “Oh, it's you again! Have you had any luck with finding my good Lord Woolsley on your travels?”

“Hey,” says Krem, who lost the bet and was therefore made the spokesman. “Yeah. Lord Woolsley, you say? About that. Him. We, uh, met him. In the passing. He, he told us to bring you his. His luck.” He tosses the coin purse he's been fiddling with to Jimmy.

Jimmy catches it easily, puzzled, and his eye widens when he weighs the pouch in his hand. “I say! Quite a lot of luck.”

“He was a very lucky ram,” Skinner says.

“He was?” asks Jimmy.

“Thanks, Skinner,” the Bull grumbles at her.

Jimmy looks from one of them to another, alarmed. “What do you mean, _was_?”

.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” Dorian offers when they've made it out of the village. “I don't see why I had to be there to witness it.”

“You ate too,” Krem reminds him testily. His cheeks are still red.

“I wasn't made aware that the ram had a _history_!”

“What's done is done,” Skinner says, unrepentant. She's tough like that.

“Be that as it may,” Dorian changes the topic, and they all stop; they've reached the crossroads. “I believe we're at the point where we bid each other farewell and part our ways forever. Pity I have nothing to leave with you as a token of my gratitude, for all your mostly helpful assistance.”

The Bull grins. “Oh, I got something all right.”

Krem's eyes dart between him and Dorian, who's trying not to smile. “What? You did? Wait, scratch that. Nobody ask them. Please.”

“Like anyone had to,” Skinner mutters vehemently.

“Really, you had no idea?” Stitches asks him.

“You didn't hear?” asks a considerably less tactful Rocky.

Dorian coughs, very loudly, into his hand, and flushes prettily. “All right, that's quite enough of -”

Krem flashes a grin at Rocky, ignoring Dorian. “No. Had my own mage skirts to ruffle.”

“Attaboy!” the Bull laughs and slaps Krem's shoulder. Dorian looks so incredulous it’s funny. Stitches raises his eyes to the sky in silent prayer.

“We were parting ways, remember?” he reminds them, dryly.

“And we shall do so now,” Dorian quickly supports him. “You have all been most accommodating. You have my gratitude and best wishes, etcetera, etcetera. Farewell.”

“Take care of yourself,” the Bull tells him, and is a little surprised how much he means it. He kind of wants to reach out and run his fingers through Dorian’s hair, but it’s not a time or place for that.

“You as well,” says Dorian, softly.

They go their separate ways after that.

.

.

.

“I thought we were parting ways forever,” the Bull says, when they’re forcing their way through the blizzard, the ruins of Haven behind them.

“Ah, but you ought to know, Bull,” says Dorian, breathless and no less sassy for it. “Time is subjective.”

*


End file.
